Friday, October 2, 2009

Brief Relexions

Reading again, like a mad man. She assigns only 50 pages, but from a book I should have read long ago. I read the whole thing. I read with an audience, always already, in my mind: my archivists, myself in 3 weeks, 3 months, 3 years, and my peers who will hear my reflections based on these readings. I become increasingly fevered, increasingly critical, increasingly self-critical--I am slowed in my reading: everything says too much. I hear the reverberations of all those prior books, the matrix begins to adjust, to incorporate this book, too, into its web: the connexions are re-strung, new resonances ring: I am full of noise, like a mad-man; a Rite of Spring: a riot ensues.

And there is J., who in his innocence I simply adore and grow simply more and more fond of, more indebted to, more alive with. It was hammers and nails tonight as he worked, and when I arrived with his requested sustenance we retreated from the storm to the fold of an awning and lavished one another with the banalities of our days that I have come to see as the "stuff" of our life together--these tenuous threads that only ever get woven (again) when the sun rises (like Penelope at her loom): our fabric. There is J., who is so admirably accepting me, as a mad-man, in the throws of a riotous re-stringing, of all this tension and contortion. That he can find concord in this discordance is a miracle: the miracle of being welcomed, which can neither be earned nor explained.

My miserable neighbor, who earlier this morning (1am) was incapable of getting into his apartment (again), and who I had to help into his apartment (again), only this time with the boy he brought home--he was just denounced as an asshole by this same man, who hurled it behind him in the time it took for the screen door to open and then slam shut. I heard this from my desk, through my door, at 3.34am. Miserable because he is a rank alcoholic, a sorry example of the sort of homosexual who cannot be intimate with another man unless drugged or drunk, and who, thus, cannot be intimate with himself. I return, again, to Freud's insight: the homosexual as the paradigmatic example of civilization's discontents: a hyperbolic case, to be sure, but an apt one, too.

The Rhetor (my new moniker for my long-time friend now in Canada) is having troubles with his g/f. I love them both, though I will always "side" with him, I suppose. Out of loyalty, out of shared experiences, out of fraternity(?).

And then there is J. What an anomaly in my life! A mad-man, himself, perhaps. There is, as Nietzsche writes, always some madness in love, but also always some reason in madness... I am pleased with the madness, and need not look for the "kernel" of reason. That is, I am happy with the love.

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